“Nosir!”

“Did I mention how the spanking red uniform will mean you’ll have to beat the girls off with a stick?”

“Don’t think so, sir!”

“Or the grub? Every meal’s a banquet when you march along with us!” The sergeant smacked his belly, which caused tremors in outlying regions. “I’m the living proof!”

“Yes, sir. No, sir. I just want to join up to fight for my country and the honour of the Duchess, sir!”

“You do?” said the corporal incredulously, but the sergeant appeared not to hear this. He looked Polly up and down, and Polly got the definite impression that the man was neither as drunk nor as stupid as he looked.

“Upon my oath, Corporal Strappi, it seems that what we’ve got ourselves here is nothin’ less than a good, old-fashioned patriot,” he said, his eyes searching Polly’s face. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, my lad!” He pulled a sheaf of papers towards him with an air of bustle. “You know who we are?”

“The Tenth Foot, sir. Light infantry, sir. Known as the ‘Ins-and-Outs’, sir,” said Polly, relief bubbling through her. She’d clearly passed some sort of test.

“Right, lad. The jolly old Cheesemongers. Finest regiment there is, in the finest army in the world. Keen to join, then, are yer?”

“Keen as mustard, sir!” said Polly, aware of the corporal’s suspicious eyes on her.

“Good lad!”

The sergeant unscrewed the top from a bottle of ink and dipped a nib pen in it. His hand hovered over the paperwork. “Name, lad?” he said.

“Oliver, sir. Oliver Perks,” said Polly.

“Age?”

“Seventeen come Sunday, sir.”

“Yeah, right,” said the sergeant. “You’re seventeen and I’m the Grand Duchess Annagovia. What’re you running away from, eh? Got a young lady in the family way?”

“’e’d ’ave ’ad to ’ave ’elp,” said the corporal, grinning. “He squeaks like a little lad.”

Polly realized she was starting to blush. But then, young Oliver would blush too, wouldn’t he? It was very easy to make a boy blush. Polly could do it just by staring.